Stone Filled Pockets
by FawkesRises
Summary: The companion to Traumatophilia. Hurt and realisation and seeing there are some things better left undiscovered.


**Stone Filled Pockets**

-FawkesRises 

Here it is, finally -- the fic companion to _Traumatophilia_. Draco's POV, second person. Sixth year. 

AN: Well, I rewrote this thing almost seven blasted times. Then found out the original version was the best of all of them. _Then _I was typing it up and it morphed into something else on me. So this is the bones of the original version but with Wednesday additions. It seems a little disjointed, but somehow I think it fits better that way. Many thanks to my wonderful cd collection. Now I don't regret spending all that money quite so much. And to Ezra, my muse and sometimes major annoyance. 

- - - - - - -

_Waking up from this nightmare_

_How's your life, what's it like there?_

- - - - - - -

You can't put your finger on the moment you realised Potter wasn't the same. Really, it was more a collection of instances where the apathy suddenly slipped away and there he was: vaguely disturbingly _different_. Completely unlike what you knew, what you had spent the last five years studying. But still, everything didn't fit together until the end.

- - -

There was an accident in Potions. Snape should've learned by now that though house favoritism is wonderful, Crabbe couldn't make a decent Potion no matter _who _he was paired up with. Potter's robes caught on fire and after all the extinguishing spells he still had to take them off. So you, well no everyone was left looking vaguely surprised. It was something taken for granted that every time Potter wasn't covered by his school robes he looked like a homeless muggle. Not this time. His clothes actually _fit_.

Later you hear that that Potter's new clothes were a pity gift from that half-breed that taught DADA in third year. You'd heard other things about that werewolf. Him and Potter's godfather. But that didn't matter now.

The next morning at breakfast you stare at Potter an entire seven minutes before you pin down the reason his face looks odd. He isn't wearing glasses. In fact, you realise he hasn't worn the hideous things since term started. That makes you feel slightly ill, how could you have missed something like that?

- - -

You've been bored lately. You haven't gotten in any fights with Potter for a good long time. So after Transfiguration you wait just outside the door. There is a certain malicious spark that burns just a little brighter when Potter trips over your outstretched foot and topples to the floor. It's Weasley that comes after you though, and you've resigned yourself to sacrificing your face so long as Gryffindor loses loads of points. But then _he _tells Weasley to drop it, then walks away. Leaving you with only the hateful stares of his cronies –

which can't fill up the space you reserve just for Potter. He's the one who matters. All the fights, the curses, the hate -- that's what you cherish. That's what you know, what you've always known. If he doesn't care, then there's no point. Damn Potter for changing the rules.

(Later, you'll decide that this is when it all went to hell.)

- - -

The one thing that should've made you realise, _forced_ you to connect all the dots, starts off with whispers. Tiny pieces of words that don't form complete sentences. Maybe that's why you didn't see it all right away. Half the time you're not sure anything's being said at all, except that Pansy decides it's her job to keep you informed. So that's how you hear it first. Not that you believe it.

But then, again at breakfast, you notice that the whispers sound a lot louder when _everyone_ is doing it. The Great Hall buzzes.

It's the same in all your classes. The quiet things that should be kept quiet become a litany that is the background music for the gaps in Binns' lectures and the two and three quarter seconds in Potions right before Snape walks in. 'Sex' is never explicitly mentioned – no, that word, no matter how softly uttered would have every adult within a league bearing down with promises of damnation. But there are plenty of words to substitute. 'Easy' sounds innocent. And if 'whore' and 'fuck' are said just the right way, then no one is the wiser.

If it were anyone else, say Blaise or that overly pretty Hufflepuff chaser or even _Weasley__ himself_ then you would swallow the lot. Because honestly, you're all teenagers after all. Hormones and sweat and bragging, that's almost what teenagers are meant to do. But it's _not_ Blaise or anyone else in your year, in the entire school; it's _Potter_.

And somehow he doesn't seem to fit in any of the images you try to conjure from your imagination. Potter's untouchable. The Golden Boy. The Savior. He's not meant to be defiled in an empty classroom with dust and cobwebs.

It's not that you care what happens to him. You know that you'll receive the Dark Mark the summer after next, and that you've always been on the other side. The opposite of Potter. But that's fighting and fighting and _fucking_ are different. You think fighting is somehow more clean, more straightforward. No one whispers about a bloody nose or a bruised hand.

- - -

It's Thursday and Snape's sent you for extra potion ingredients from a storeroom you didn't know existed. It's out of the dungeons completely, just past a statue of some witch with her ears on either side of her nose. You can never remember her name.

You open the door and the cupboard isn't as deserted as it should be.

_Potter_.

He's against the wall to the left, only there's something in front…oh. You can admit when you're wrong. Sometimes. And this time you were most definitely wrong.

It seems everyone else knew Potter better than you did.

You shut the door quickly and run farther down the corridor. You stop and lean against the wall.

Your head is filled with what's hidden behind that door. Potter – his robes around his feet and his shirt unbuttoned. That Ravenclaw seventh year who plays keeper on the house team; you've forgotten his name. The Ravenclaw's huge hands clutching Potter's hips, fingers digging into pale skin. There'll be bruises tomorrow. Ones Potter maybe won't even notice are there. But most of all, Potter's eyes. You looked straight at him. But it doesn't matter because even though his eyes were wide open, there was nothing behind them. Knock, knock, Potter's not home.

Seeing him like that gives you a prickly feeling down your spine.

Not surprisingly a little corner of your brain is screaming for you to report them, to drag Potter through the mud. Just to watch him suffer.

Instead, you go back to the statue of the witch, lean into the shadows and wait. You have time; Snape won't come looking for you, not _you_.

The Ravenclaw comes out first. He tucks his shirt in and straightens his robes. Runs a hand through his hair. Then it's off down the corridor without a backward glance.

Potter comes out about a minute after. He's still trying to button his shirt (he does it from the top down) and you're still right about some things. Those bruises are already starting to form. You can see the outlines of fingers just above the waistband of his trousers.

He finally finishes buttoning his shirt and he looks up. You're glad you took that extra step back when the cupboard door opened. He can't see you, but you can see him fine.

The wet tracks down his face catch the light. Potter's crying.

It's the first time you've seen him cry.

Oddly enough, you don't laugh. (You remember last year, being mad as hell about your father in Azkaban. Well, not just mad, but you're a Malfoy. You threw a fit in the dorm room and broke your bedside table when you hurled it at the wall. That night when Crabbe and Goyle and the rest were asleep you cried behind your bed curtains.)

You wonder exactly how many times Potter has done this, come out broken. And how long it will take him to realise that it's not going to fix him.

– end


End file.
